


A face that cannot smile, hands that cannot clap, what am I?

by Alerane



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Death, Experimental Style, Gen, I kind of wrote this last night and still like it enough today to post??, Inner Dialogue, Morbid, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, POV Multiple, Poetry, Regrets, ending spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 05:43:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alerane/pseuds/Alerane
Summary: Tick, tick.A frozen moment, where time does not pass.Where everything is stopped.Where things should end, but somehow they do not.Stuck between the seconds.Broken like the hands of a jammed clock.Gears grinding, still trying to continue on, but something stops them.Held back.





	A face that cannot smile, hands that cannot clap, what am I?

**Author's Note:**

> Not my usual style but I'm a bit proud of it, without further adieu~

Tick, tick.

A frozen moment, where time does not pass.  
Where everything is stopped.  
Where things should end, but somehow they do not.  
Stuck between the seconds.  
Broken like the hands of a jammed clock.  
Gears grinding, still trying to continue on, but something stops them.  
Held back.

Dust hangs in the air and music pounds in his ears.  
Every now and then a pulse of brightness flashes before his eyes.  
There’s a sense of urgency, but for what?  
His hands tighten, gripping something closely.  
He looks around himself unseeing.  
He’s alone. He has to do it alone.  
The pounding in his ears continues, the music deafening.  
The pounding in his head, right at the back of it.  
He came here for something important, didn’t he?

There are voices, sharp and soft. Her face is wet.  
There’s a tightness and a pull back as they fade into the background again.  
The music starts and each note is shaky, like her breath.  
The melody bounces and she with it.  
Why is it so hard to breathe? Playing never got her like this before.  
But her fingers are not dancing on the keys, are they?  
No they are pressed somewhere, clawing for some give.  
Faster and faster still, but she hangs on knowing she has to.

A looping tirade and a dizzying waltz play on and on, an unending song.

Tick, tick.

The ache is setting in. It’s late, it’s been a long day.  
All the running, all the hiding.  
Finally standing still, his lightness all but gone.  
You always feel heavy at night, though, don’t you?  
But do you gasp? He sputters and pushes but it’s too heavy.  
He can’t move.  
Bubbles and bubbles, and his aches fade again.  
Maybe he’ll see them here, since he couldn’t see them there?

The clatter of heels echoes all around her.  
Shouts barrage the senses and wind whips through her hair.  
She will not stop. She cannot stop.  
Her skin, in her fingertips, and all over stings.  
Her clothes tear, threads straining.  
Her gloves are shredded again. How could she let that happen?  
She would never present herself as such, yet it happens the same.  
She grinds her teeth as the sun goes down.  
Can they really sleep soundly without her?

Stillness and motion, in striking contrast, but neither where they want to be.

Tick, tick.

The smell of wax and paint. The residue caked under fingernails.  
The soft dim light, gentle from a candle’s glow.  
Quiet, secluded, the perfect time to work.  
But somehow it was not the artist retreat as planned.  
The sound of metal biting into the wood. The long shadow blocking the light.  
When the others approached her, she’d had her arms wide and faced them.  
This time, why had they approached from her back?

Cramped and crouched, waiting, the darkness absolute around her.  
The smell of wax and smoke.  
Her knees, her hands and her forehead all rest on the grain of the wood.  
In the blackness hangs a haunting harmony.  
Voices of her classmates. Voice of her friend.  
Her own voice silent, as instructed. When was the last time she was silent?  
They wait to speak to someone who’s not here.  
Even the dead will speak, but she must stay still and silent.  
Is that what’s happening as the world shifts beneath her?

Held tight in an embrace, tied in it with no room to squirm.  
Spun and twisted, berated for the loss.  
Fallen from his attempt, like many tales before him.  
And truly like that outlaw, he’d go out the same way.  
Soaked in sweat, soaked in steam. Soaked and burning.  
And it stops… and somehow he’s not boiling anymore.  
But the burning returns and the burning remains.  
As does the chiding.  
Was he ever good enough?

The light, the smoke, and the fire, burning out.

Tick, tick.

The brightness and the chill, in both the air and her spine.  
The click of a door, the crunch of the snow.  
Heavy in her hand she shifts the tool.  
She feels it all, as she knows she should. She knows how.  
She knows it all. That’s certainly why she’s here.  
Still, her eyes see the difference.  
Softer, smoother, smaller. Vulnerable.  
But was it really vulnerability in front of her, in white on white?  
As more white wrapped around her, and the trap was complete.  
She stepped into her own trap, didn’t she know?

Chained and defeated, a gentleman accepts his fate.  
Telling himself it is for the best. Head bowed in the beating sun.  
His ‘self’ that tells him so is awaiting the same fate.  
The wind blows, stinging tear stained cheeks.  
Stinging endlessly. Stinging every inch until it’s numb.  
His swollen heart doesn’t know how this happened, despite the truths told.  
Something in his gut tells him it’s over as he burns to know.  
If he knew would it have gone any better?

Knowing or not, the elements carry on when they do not.

Tick, tick.

Time is a tricky thing, he thinks.  
Time is a pain. Time is a resource.  
And here he is, pressed for time.  
And yet with so little time the smallest things seem endless.  
A wheeze and a cough. A fog that doesn’t clear.  
Arms, not on a clock, pulling him all around here.  
Two holes, not on an hourglass, leak and smear.  
Time is oppressive, and bearing down from inside and out.  
A softness on his back, a shallow breath for a last thought.  
Will his thoughts really matter when the seconds have stopped?

Shouting through a hoarse throat, clenching his fists with all his might.  
Strapped in and down he goes, holding it in all for one final show.  
But still he feels it well in his chest.  
Burbling to the surface, wracking his frame.  
The tiny capsule’s shaking stops, though, and his eyes crack open.  
And before him is the infinite, dotted in light, vast and open.  
Free of the confinement, finally where he’s meant to be.  
And free of its confinement the cough rears its head.  
And before him is the window, dotted in blood, small and close.  
But his eyes only see the space beyond.  
Will they make it beyond down there?

In the closest quarters the infinite bloods, but still the clock runs out for both.

Tick, tick

Dust and debris rained down, and she stood her ground.  
Her remaining ally, but never friend at her side.  
The final curtain came with no encore, no standing ovation, no cheers.  
The final curtain came with sour looks, early leavers and jeers.  
Somewhere deep down this was expected, she despairs.  
Not because it was what she wanted, not exactly.  
She leadenly waves to the distance, to someone, but she’s not quite sure who.  
To her audience? What audience?  
To her friends? What friends…  
A shadow gathers, growing larger over head, and still she does not run.  
In the end, going through with it all was enough, she hopes?

A broken clock is often repaired.  
Clocks are valuable. Clocks are art.  
The time they keep is an endless cycle, housed for us all to look upon.  
A lifetime of watching the hands, the face, turning and changing.  
A season passes, and the clock stops, to be wound once more.  
Not every tradition is sacred, though.  
Contained or not, time will pass.  
But break the clock, and look elsewhere.  
Sail towards the sun.  
Tear down the structure.  
Leave it beyond repair.

And then flies on through.

In that moment of fire. In that moment of the end.  
In that moment he sees it.

The clock has stopped. But time is not stuck.  
And with it gone one by one, they are ushered out.  
Back into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
This was originally going to be a horror story but it ended up more contemplative and angsty? Sorry about that! :'D I like getting in characters heads though and playing with metaphors. A few things are left up to interpretation because of the style, but I'm happy to expand on the idea if you ask!
> 
> All comments, feedback, crit is welcome! I am a newer writer and would love thoughts!


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